


Thomson's Crossing

by LogicGunn



Series: The Long Dark [4]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, The Long Dark (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Long Dark Fusion, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Apocalyptic, Rodney's POV, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicGunn/pseuds/LogicGunn
Summary: It’s mid Spring by the time Rodney finds the map, dusty and faded and curling at the edges.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Series: The Long Dark [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583821
Comments: 53
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have finished this fic, I'm just editing the chapters one last time. I'll try to upload every two days.

It’s mid Spring by the time Rodney finds the map, dusty and faded and curling at the edges. It's tucked away in the middle of a pile of receipts that he unearthed from under the counter during a boredom-induced spring clean. He’s not sure what possessed him to actually sort through the pile seeing as though it’s mostly cabin reservations printed - edge to edge - on both sides of each yellowing sheet (and, oh, the things he could do with an abundance of blank scrap paper and all this leisure time). John’s frolicking outside with Miska, filling up the newly built log shelters with firewood so that it will dry out in time for the next long winter. Rodney’s pulled something in his chest - some kind of sneaky intercostal muscle that’s playing havoc on his range of motion - so John relegated him to tending house while he spends his day sawing logs and throwing sticks and stacking wood and rubbing bellies. The long, dark winter didn’t lend itself to housework; it’s hard to care about the dust between the bannisters when every day is a battle to keep warm and fed. But now that sunlight has returned, and the days are getting longer, all that domestic neglect makes its presence known in the form of irritated skin and bouts of sneezing. So he’s beaten the rugs and hung them to air out on the snowy front porch, swept both upstairs and down, and thrown a wet duster or a damp mop into every nook and cranny the office possesses until every particle of dust has been vanquished and he’s hot and agitated, sweat dripping down his face, his neck, the small of his back. 

It’s just a little break really, an excuse to sit down with a cup of rosehip tea and catch his breath. Each and every cupboard is full to bursting with junk, and with the two of them only having the clothes on their backs when they crash-landed there’s been no pressing need for cupboard space, no reason to look inside other than a cursory search for survival gear. But now that he’s sitting at the counter, tea in hand and wet rags drying in front of the fire, curiosity gets the better of him. He empties the cupboards, one by one, and sorts the contents into three boxes: to keep (anything useful, of which there is remarkably little), to burn (anything not useful but flammable), or to chuck in an empty cabin and forget about (old electronics and plastics). The pile of receipts is innocuous enough, bundled together with string in someone’s rural notion of a long-term filing system. He almost throws it straight into the burn box but...what if there’s some usable scrap? So he unties the string, rolling it up to be reused later, and sorts through the papers one by one. Receipt, receipt, receipt, coupons, receipt, pamphlet...map? 

When he unfolds it the map shows the whole of Great Bear Island and its surrounding islets, much like the big map on the wall, but unlike the map on the wall it has hand-drawn routes penned in red ink crisscrossing all over the island from a single, central point. It seems there is more than one service trail leading off from the island’s logging camp. None of them leads to Milton, the town on the other side of the collapsed rail tunnel, but they do head in the opposite direction to a smaller settlement called Thomson’s Crossing. Rodney's debated at length with John the pros and cons of climbing the cliff-faces to get out of the valley and up to the ridge that houses Milton. John’s caution won out every time - “If either of us got hurt...it’s not like there’s a mountain rescue service anymore...” - but a walk along a logging trail has minimal risk, especially if it ends up in a settlement. They’ve long since given up the hope of finding anyone alive on the island (the one and only time they encountered another living, breathing human being is not a moment either of them likes to remember), but where there are settlements there are supplies. Food. Equipment. Soap. Oh, how good it would be to wash with soap that didn’t stink to high heaven. Rodney’s gotten good at making home-made soap from ashes and animal fat, but the stench of the process is almost unbearable. He tempers it with flowering plants as best he can, but Goddamn. Neither Miska nor John can tolerate it, so he’s forced to do it outside over an open fire pit where the wind can blow most of the smell away. They have about a year’s worth of soap already made so it’s going to be a while before he has to make more, but if they could find something to replace it with...he’d even settle for some of that excessively-fragranced, fluorescent, adolescent body wash with an overpowering scent called cool breeze or testosterone blast or some other ridiculous nomenclature. Anything but Eau de Lard would be nice. 

Rodney lays the map down on the counter, smoothing the paper out until it’s flush with the wood then weighing it down with various objects. The map is old and a little faded, the creases sharp with repeated folding, but it’s still in useable condition. It probably spent its life in the dashboard of a truck or the back pocket of a pair of sturdy work trousers, referred to by a lumberjack (or jill) at the start of a shift. The added lines are precise, confidently drawn in sharp, red ink and meticulously curving around the topography. The road in question leads off from the main logging camp itself, twisting North-East through the mountains towards Pleasant Valley. Thomson’s Crossing is on the far side of the valley, maybe 30km from where he’s standing right now. It would take a couple of days, but- 

The back door opens and an icy breeze sweeps into the office as John and Miska come rushing back in. “Honey, I’m home!” says John, and Miska circles Rodney’s feet, wagging her tail happily. 

“That joke gets exponentially lamer each time you make it,” grumbles Rodney, not looking up from the map but scratching Miska’s ears with one hand. 

“And yet you still smile.” John unwinds his scarf and hangs his jacket on the peg by the door. “How’s your chest?” 

“It only hurts when I breathe. And, hey, don’t trail your muddy snow all across my mopped floor!” 

“Yessir.” John kicks off his boots and ambles over in his socks, dropping his chin onto Rodney’s shoulder. “Whatcha looking at?” 

“It’s a map. Found it in a cupboard. I think these red lines are logging trails.” 

“I didn’t realise there was so much forest on the island.” 

“Me neither. One of the trails leads through the mountains towards a settlement. Look.” Rodney points out the trail with his finger. “Thomson’s Crossing. Might be worth a visit?” 

John pulls away and grabs the stove-top kettle to pour them both a fresh cup of tea. “We’ve been through this, Rodney. We’re not risking life and limb to satisfy your curiosity.” 

“It’s hardly a trip up Everest. It’s a logging trail. Whatever the terrain, the path has to be easily traversable by truck, and one laden with logs no less. It’ll be a walk in the park. Literally.” 

“How far do you think it is?” asks John as he sips his tea. 

“Thirty kilometres, give or take. Two days there, two days back.” 

“It’s a long way to go for a couple of backpack’s worth of supplies. It’s not like we can drag the sled there and back in four days.” 

“So maybe we take it slower.” 

John fiddles with his mug. “I’m not saying no-” 

“Great, so let’s get packed and we can set off tomorrow at dawn.” 

“-I’m just saying we need to be cautious.” 

“We also need coffee and morphine.” 

“Coffee?” snorts John. 

“Do you know how long it’s been?” 

“It’s been all of four months, Rodney.” 

“Exactly. I’m in withdrawal. I’m crabby and tired all the time.” 

“I think that’s just your charming personality.” 

“We can’t just stay here forever. We really need to start consolidating all the supplies on the island.” 

John sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “It’s not a bad idea. I just...yeah, okay. But we’re turning back if the trek is too difficult or dangerous.” 

“Sure, sure,” Rodney waves a hand dismissively. “But it won’t be. It’s a service trail.” 

“Handwritten on an old map. That’s hardly reassuring.” 

*** 

Reassuring or otherwise, they set off first thing in the morning with almost empty rucksacks and Miska following on their heels. The start of the route is familiar and quickly traversed under clear skies and white fluffy clouds. They pass the creepy derailed train with its dark windows and burned out engine, and follow the railroad until they come to the well-worn track leading to the logging camp. They pass between piles of cut logs sitting on either side of the road waiting for a train that will never come. It’s too cold for them to rot, and they’re too big to be processed and transported in any meaningful way without heavy machinery. It’s a waste that Rodney thinks of often, all that unused wood sitting around that could fuel their fire for years to come. If only they had a working chainsaw and a truck. As it is, they are cutting down relatively small trees, sawing them to length then splitting then with an axe. Living wood is hard to burn, but what they cut now will be ready in time for winter. 

It’s a good twenty minutes before they reach the logging trail penned onto the map, splitting off just as the logging camp cabins come into view and carving a path through the dense forest. It’s gated, and there’s a hand-painted sign stating ‘Thomson’s Crossing, 20 km. Max Speed: 25 kph”. 

“At least we know this is the right way,” says Rodney, brushing snow off the top of the latch. 

“Uh...Rodney?” says John. 

“Mmmm?” 

“I have a confession to make.” 

Rodney knows that tone of voice. It’s John’s guilty voice. The voice he used when he told Rodney he ate the last of the pound cake. “Okay?” 

“Remember the guy, the body in the cabin out here?” 

That’s not something Rodney can forget. They found a dead immigrant worker in the accommodation trailer last time they came here to collect tools. Long dead, and seemingly Miska’s previous owner. “I remember.” 

“I kinda...maybe...took him up this way when we had to shelter in the snowstorm.” 

“Are we going to...is he on the trail?!” 

“No, he’s a little into the woods. I just wanted to say in case Miska sniffs him out. Don’t want you to have any surprises.” 

“I’ll try to contain my horror.” 

John clearly didn’t do a good job of hiding the body, Miska catches a scent almost immediately and makes a beeline into the forest. Rodney refuses point blank to follow her into the tree line, so John leaves him with the rifle and darts in through the trunks calling her name. When he returns it’s with a reluctant and somewhat subdued Miska at his heels. Rodney tries not to feel resentful, it’s easy to forget she had a life before they found her, and she was obviously a much-loved working dog back before the great EMP event. But she’s theirs now, and they love her without reserve. 

When John takes back the rifle, Rodney feels relief. He’s been practising, has gotten better at shooting tin cans off a tree trunk (he now has an accuracy of 66 %), but John’s the military man (and an American) and has a natural affinity with the gun in a way that Rodney can’t hope to emulate. Canadian professors of Physics don’t have a need for firearm training and holding the rifle brings him out in emotional hives, not to mention the fear that he might accidentally shoot himself (or John, or Miska). 

*** 

The trail starts inclining as they approach the mountainous ridge and it gets harder and harder to traverse, especially wrapped up in their wintery layers. Even John is feeling the strain as they wind their way through the valley between the two snowy peaks, the slope steep and without the respite of level terrain. 

“This is your idea of ‘easily traversable’?” moans John, breath misting in front of his face. 

“It’s a bit steeper than I expected, but it’ll surely level off soon.” 

“Jesus, I hope so. And I hope this expedition is worth the effort.” 

“Aren’t you military? Shouldn’t this be a walk in the park for you?” 

John huffs at the question. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I’ve not had the opportunity to do much cardio training in the middle of this frozen wasteland. You can’t go running in the snow.” 

“Oh...that’s...I thought you were just naturally athletic.” 

“Even in the Air Force it’s a lot of work to keep your fitness up to standard, Rodney.” 

“I see that now.” Actually, now that he thinks about it, John’s formerly rock-hard stomach has become a little squidgy in the middle, it forms a cute little roll over the waistband of his sagging boxers. Not that Rodney would ever mention it (John’s prone to a little vanity) but he has an affinity for the slight give under his hands when they’re curled up together in bed. 

“You do the same things as I do,” pants John. “We’re about as fit as each other.” 

That makes Rodney smile. “No one has ever called me fit before.” 

“You probably weren’t chopping logs with an axe every day in your previous life.” 

“True.” 

“Haven’t you noticed the increase in your muscle mass? You’ve got biceps for days. And you always had greater lower body strength than me.” 

“I hadn’t really noticed.” 

“I did.” 

Rodney feels himself flush at the thought of such scrutiny, that John’s noticed his body, has catalogued the changes and appreciates what he sees both back then and now. He wonders, not for the first time, if John had ever had a male lover before him. John isn’t forthcoming with the details of his previous life. It’s not that he doesn’t answer questions, it’s just that he gets this look on his face whenever Rodney asks something, like he’s surprised that the answers might be important to someone. He rarely volunteers information on his own volition. Rodney tries not to ask him things too often, aware that he could easily push too far, too fast, but if he doesn't ask at all John might never voluntarily tell him anything. And Rodney wants to know all there is about the man that has become so important to him. Friend, lover, protector, champion archer and leecher-of-body-heat. 

“Did you make a habit of noticing men,” he asks as they finally come to the top of the hill. “Before I mean?” 

John’s pulls a water bottle out of the side of his rucksack and takes a long draw. He’s not stalling for time, but taking the time to think, and Rodney appreciates the distinction. 

“I don’t think so,” says John as he passes the water bottle to Rodney. “I never really thought about it.” 

“Huh. Me neither. What do you suppose that means?” 

“It doesn’t mean anything.” 

“But if we’re just-” 

“We’re not just anything, Rodney.” John’s tone is sharp, and he sighs as he collects himself. “If we’d been rescued, we’d still be...you know...this isn’t some kind of fling or phase or...or...convenience. I liked you even before we crashed. Would have grown to care for you no matter what.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s...I mean, me too. It’s just that you’re an incredibly hot and athletic Air Force Major and I’m a balding, middle-aged scientist. We’re not an obvious match.” 

“We’re a great match. And stop lagging behind, this trek was your idea.” 

*** 

They find shelter in the form of a natural cave at the summit of the trail not long before the sun goes down below the horizon. They’re high up the mountainside, far above the tree line, and the cave is deep in the back of a sheltered crevice. The open ceiling means they can have a fire, and the close quarters means the heat will have greater staying power than it would if they were forced to camp outside. Both Rodney and John collected fallen wood before they left the forest behind, have rucksacks full of it, and they find suitable rocks inside the cave to form a border. John sets up the firepit while Rodney makes somewhere to sleep, laying down thermal mats on the rocky ground and zipping two sleeping bags together. When the fire really gets going, Rodney brings out a couple of cans of  porn’n’beans for them (proper Cowboy food according to John) and some canned meat for Miska, and puts them on the hot rocks to heat up. They didn’t bring much food, just enough for a couple of meals and some stale granola bars that they keep in their packs for emergencies, trusting that they’ll find non-perishables in the settlement. It’s a risk, sure, but it’s not a big one. Every building they’ve scoured for supplies has given them something edible. People living this far away from amenities tend to stock up on non-perishables. 

According to the map, Thomson’s Crossing is a mining town, serving the Cinder Hills coal mine to the East. Mining towns in rural Canada are incredibly self-sufficient, and Rodney’s hopeful they’ll find a doctor’s office they can forage. If they can get a couple of rucksacks full of medical supplies and toiletries it’ll be well worth this difficult trek through the mountains. When Miska’s dinner is warmed through Rodney spoons it onto the ground for her to eat. She wolfs it down in seconds, a habit they’ve been unable to get her out of, and lies down by the fire, settling in for the night. Rodney and John eat their beans with their sporks then strip off their outer layers and huddle in the sleeping bags together. John spoons Rodney from behind, pushing his hands up underneath Rodney’s t-shirt and trailing his finger through his chest hair. It starts off comforting, the slow tickle of fingertips gliding over his skin, but then John’s fingernails come in to play, scratching over his nipples, his ribs, his stomach. When John starts to kiss the back of his neck Rodney gives up all pretence of stoicism and reaches back to pull John’s hips closer. They press together, grinding and touching, until John pulls their underwear down and starts rubbing himself against Rodney’s ass in earnest, hand slipping down Rodney’s stomach to cup him, pulling and twisting in time to his thrusts. When they come it’s only a breath apart and Rodney turns over to pull John into a full-body embrace. John kisses him with such tenderness it breaks Rodney’s heart a little bit, to have found such companionship in his life, here and now in this frozen wasteland, something he didn’t even know he was missing for the longest time. They lie there, entwined together and under a strip of starry sky, the sounds of Miska snoring pulling them down into a restful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Rodney rises with the sun and takes a few moments to bask in the sight of the man asleep next to him before he wakes him up. John’s hair is as messy as it’s ever been, sticking up in oddly-angled spikes, dark where Rodney is fair. His face is tanned from all the outdoor work they’ve been doing and in sleep the lines at the corner of his eyes are softened. He looks younger than his thirty-eight years, carefree in his dreams. Awake he has the weight of the world on his shoulders, things he carries though life, things he punishes himself over. Rodney doesn’t know the ins and outs of his military career but John has spoken briefly of things that no one should ever have to witness and things no one should ever have to do or have done to them. The loss of his friend, Holland, is a heavy burden that he can’t ease, a failure that he can’t forgive himself for. From Rodney’s perspective it sounds like there was nothing John could have done, but then John isn’t all that forthcoming and perhaps there are things he hasn’t told him. Everyone has secrets, but Rodney can honestly say that there is nothing that John could be hiding that is so bad that Rodney couldn’t forgive, no crime or mistake, action or inaction that would make him stop...loving him. And isn’t that a hell of a thought right there? 

“You’re staring,” says John with his eyes tight shut. 

“So what if I am?” 

“It’s waking me up.” 

“Well, it’s about time. The sun has been up for hours you know.” 

John opens his eyes and smiles. “I could almost believe that if you weren’t such a terrible liar.” 

“Yes, well, we can’t all be experts in subterfuge and stealth. Some of us have made a career out of telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. There is no room for ego in science, you have facts and not-facts, and only the facts matter. Unless a not-fact becomes a fact. I’ve made a lot of not-facts into facts in my time.” 

“Wow. You’re very awake this morning.” 

“I’ve been up for a while. You have some catching up to do.” 

John reaches for his clothes. “Keep your pants on, I’m coming.” 

They dress and pack up their bedding, taking time to shower Miska with affection when she gets in the way. They leave the firepit in situ, figuring this would be as good a place as any to shelter on the way back home. From their vantage point outside the crevice they can see for miles in both directions; where they came from and where they’re going. All the way back to the logging camp and ahead to a radio mast on a distant hill. It’s marked on the map as Signal Hill, an apt if unimaginative name for a radio station, and it’s a good ten kilometres away if their orienteering skills are up to scratch. The logging trail should take them right past it on the way to the main highway that bisects the valley. They can follow that highway to Thomson’s Crossing, and with any luck they’ll be there by mid-afternoon. 

*** 

This side of the summit is a gentler, downhill slope. The ground lights up as the sun rises higher in the sky, and unveils a frozen river cutting through the valley beneath them. It’s not just the three of them that are awake; deer are digging in the snow on the far bank of the river for food, and there are hares in abundance that Miska chases back into their burrows. She’s enjoying this prolonged walk through the mountains, so much so that her tail doesn’t stop wagging. Her excitement is contagious and even John shows signs of enthusiasm for the end of their journey, starts talking about things he wishes they had and might find in an abandoned settlement: more clothing, chocolate, ammo, a new novel. Rodney hopes there’s coffee; even Folgers would make him smile at this point. And milk powder or Coffee-Mate. He can drink black coffee is he has to, but there’s nothing like a milky coffee to start the day. He’d trade just about anything for a substantial stock of caffeine. 

The radio tower looms closer and closer, and sometime around midday they start climbing the hill it sits on. There’s a chain-link fence surrounding the structure, its gate padlocked closed. John circles the fence to find a way through and Rodney looks longingly at the mast. He wishes he could get it working and make contact with other people. His sister and niece in Edmonton, His aunt in Quaqtaq. Zelenka in Thule airbase (the only other scientist that doesn't bring him out in hives). Carter, so he can tear her a new one over the damage she has done to the planet. If only he’d been there, he might have been able to make a difference, prevent what happened. Carter’s hubris has stranded him on this island, away from his family and his peers. But that, in turn, has brought him closer to John than he has been to anyone in his life and he’s thankful for that one small concession despite it all. 

“There’s no other way in,” says John as he comes back around. “Wanna climb over or shoot the lock?” 

“After all that walking I’m not up for climbing it.” 

“Alright. Stand back, it could ricochet.” 

John aims then fires the rifle and the padlock snaps open and falls to the ground with a heavy thunk. The sound of the shot echoes across out from the hill, so very loud in the silence of the valley. Miska barks at the noise, and Rodney wishes they could communicate with her to explain things that they do. She must think them mad sometimes. When they walk through the gate Rodney checks the radio tower’s control panel automatically, just in case. Had it any juice the light at the top would have been lit and visible for miles around, but he is a scientist, he likes to be certain of things. It’s dead as a doornail, and though he expected that he feels a little dejected at the confirmation. After so many months on the island, it would have been great to have had some good news. He’s long since given up hope of actually going home, but would the return of some modern conveniences be too much to ask? 

The radio shack isn’t locked and they all tumble in the door out of the cold. It’s small and compact, and Rodney is surprised to find bunk beds. Presumably there was someone present here at all times before the great event, and from the décor it’s clear that this was a military station. There’s an abundance of radio equipment across several desks, all of it dead and silent. Rodney goes through some stacks of paper, but it’s all just routine military communications, nothing useful. John pries open a locker with his boot knife, finds some BDUs and boots inside, but the boots are too small and the BDUs aren’t warm enough to bother with. They check inside cupboards for anything useful, find very little except a compass that John gives to Rodney and a couple of powerbars. Rodney tears into a peanut butter one, and John grabs a choc chip. They’re cold and hard but full of refined sugar and hydrogenated oil, and that’s nothing to be sniffed at in these deer-hunting times. 

Satisfied that there is nothing else of note in the radio shack they set off back down the hill and around towards the main road. The wind has picked up and it’s bitterly cold but they are well wrapped and insulated, and Miska is seemingly impervious to the drop in temperature. She ambles along beside them, sniffing around from time to time, exploring at her own leisure but never going too far out of sight. The road is covered in a thick layer of ice and it’s a little slippery so they keep to the verge, dodging around abandoned vehicles as they go. A fence runs parallel to the road, enclosing what looks like a dead orchard, though what fruit grows this far North Rodney doesn’t know. Across the field they can see a farmhouse and a silo, and further down the road a massive barn. Rodney’s about to suggest that they start there when John grabs him and pushes him down to the ground as a very loud shot rings out from somewhere up ahead. Rodney hits the ground hard, John landing on top of him, and the wind is knocked out of his chest. John asks him if he’s okay, but he can’t suck a breath in to talk so he just nods his head and waits for his lungs to work again. John crawls over him and drags him by his arms across the ice until they’re both safely behind the wheels of a big blue pickup truck, calling Miska to come to them from where she’s cowering out in the open. 

“What was that?” asks Rodney, but even as he does so he feels stupid, stupid, stupid. 

“Gunshot.” John’s checking his magazine and he slides it back into place with a snick. “Stay down.” 

“John-” 

“Stay. Down.” The command in John’s voice is palpable, and Rodney gets a glimpse of the USAF Major beneath the laid-back exterior. He realises with a start that John is dangerous with a capital D, and he’s immensely glad that they’re on the same side of whatever is going on right now. Miska lies down on the ground in response to his command and Rodney feels himself slumping down next to her, tucking his legs in tight. 

John yanks the mirror off the truck door and holds it up above the hood, angling it slowly. Rodney can’t see what John sees, but John must have found what he was looking for; he drops the mirror, flattens himself to the ground and starts sliding underneath the truck. Rodney peers after him as he crawls up to the verge and pokes the barrel of the rifle through the snowy bank. He doesn’t move for an absolute age, lies completely still, watching and planning. Rodney can practically see the calculations flowing through John’s mind, can catalogue his unease through the tense plains of his body and the absolute stillness of his limbs. When the second shot finally rings out Rodney is convinced this is it, that John’s been killed and he is next, and when John doesn’t move he starts to panic. 

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” 

“Shhh,” says John sliding out from underneath the truck. “It’s okay Rodney, it’s over.” 

“What...what just happened?” 

“Sniper. Top of the barn. He’s dead.” 

“Are there others?” 

“Doesn’t look like it.” John twists onto his ass with a moan, resting his back against the wheel, and it’s then that Rodney notices the deep red stain on the snow underneath the truck. 

“Oh my God, are you bleeding?!” 

“It’s not that bad.” 

“Not that bad? Are you insane?! You’ve been shot!” 

“I know.” 

Rodney grabs the zip of John’s winter coat and pulls it down, scanning John’s torso for damage. He finds the bullet wound on his left side by feel and John winces when his fingers brush over it. 

“I can feel something hard under your skin,” says Rodney. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. What do I do?” 

“Rodney, I’m not bleeding out. It hurts like a bitch but it’s not going to kill me so the first thing to do is calm down.” 

“Calm. Right. I’m calm.” 

“Can you help me up?” 

Rodney crouches next to John, and John puts his arm around his shoulders. They stand together and John leans against the truck to catch his breath, slinging the rifle’s strap over his shoulder. 

“What now?” asks Rodney. 

“Closest building is the farmhouse.” 

“What if there are people?” 

“We have to risk it. I’m not going to get far with a bullet in me.” 

“Okay, so...” 

“Barn first. Need to check on the body.” 

“Maybe he’s not dead?” 

John snorts mirthlessly. “I’d be surprised if he survived a headshot.” 

John leans heavily on Rodney as the three of them walk down the road to the gate that leads to the barn. As far as outbuildings go it’s cavernous, with a tractor and several large bales of hay and low-lying rafters. There’s a ladder up front leading to a second storey balcony, and from it a steady drip of blood landing on the hay covered ground below. Rodney tilts his head but from this vantage point he can’t see the body, and if he can’t see it then neither can John. 

“We’re going to go up,” says John. 

“Do we have to?” 

"I’ll go first.” 

John climbs the ladder slowly, and Rodney can see how much it’s hurting him to do it. He keeps his left arm low down over his wound and pulls up with his right. When he gets to the top he stops for a long moment, then pulls himself up onto the balcony. Rodney climbs up after him, leaving Miska on the ground to sniff around. When he gets to the top he realises what made John pause. The body of a woman is lying close to the ladder, a single gunshot wound in her forehead. Her grey eyes are open, staring fixedly at the roof, and her auburn braid is lying coiled across her neck. She looks a lot like his aunt. It’s worse somehow, that it’s a woman and not a man. Rodney didn’t imagine that possibility and from the look on John’s face neither did he. John silently grabs her rifle and ammo and passes them to Rodney, who fumbles with them, then checks the woman’s pockets. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, which he discards, and a lighter, which he pockets. The wallet he opens. 

“What was her name?” asks Rodney. He doesn’t know why he asks, why he needs to know, but he does. 

“Molly.” John’s voice is rough, thick with emotion. 

“She’s the first woman you’ve killed, isn’t she?” 

“There are some things I never thought I would do. That is one of them.” 

“She would have killed us.” 

“Yeah.” 

They descend the ladder in silence. Rodney can’t think of anything to say to make John feel better about what he’s done. If only she’d called out to them instead of sniping them from afar. Maybe the noise they made at the radio tower spooked her, made her feel unsafe. Maybe she’s just a killer and would have shot anyone that walked past her barn. She had strong, calloused hands, the hands of a hard worker. She’s probably the farmer that lived on this farm before when life was normal. 

John's pale and shaky when he steps off the ladder. Rodney pulls John's arm over his shoulders and they step out into the field and head to the farmhouse. 

*** 

“You’ve done this before, right? You know what you’re doing? Cause I really, really, don’t.” 

“S’fine, Rodney. Just get the bullet out then patch me up. Nothing to it.” 

“Nothing to it, my ass. I swear to god, John, if you die on me-” 

“Won’t die. Been shot before. S’just a flesh wound.” 

The farmhouse wasn’t locked so they found their way inside easily. John made Rodney leave him lying on the couch and clear all the rooms and the basement with his new rifle, and it’s very telling how bad John’s feeling that he asked that of a civilian. Rodney found a basic first aid kit in a bathroom upstairs and an abundance of bandages in the master bedroom. The fire was already lit and the house is warm, so the first thing Rodney does is strip John’s jacket, sweater and under layers to get at the wound. 

“There’s a lump,” says Rodney, wiping blood off John’s torso with a damp towel. 

“Yeah.” 

“I think it’s the bullet. It looks like it got stuck in your ribs.” 

“You need to get it out.” 

“Won’t that hurt?” 

“Like hell. But it can’t stay there. Are there any tweezers in that kit?” 

Rodney empties out the kit onto the floor and spreads the items around. “Here.” He holds them out to John, but John doesn’t take them. 

“Are they sterile?” 

“They’re in a packet.” 

“Okay, that’s great. Disinfect your hands with the alcohol gel and unwrap the tweezers.” 

“John...” 

“It’s alright buddy, you’re doing fine. I need you to stay calm, okay?” 

“Jesus. Yeah, okay.” 

Rodney cleans his hands and opens the tweezer packet, and John lifts his hands up above his head to grab the arm of the couch, gripping it tight. 

“Just stick the tweezers in the wound and try to grab the bullet,” he says. 

Easy, this is easy. It’s like that game he plays with Madison. Operation. Only this is a real body and a real bullet and- 

“Rodney, breathe.” 

“Sorry. I’m fine. I’ve got this.” 

John winces hard when Rodney starts digging around in his wound. He can feel the tweezers scraping the top of the bullet, but the wound is so tight there’s not a lot of room to manoeuvre and the damn thing is partially lodged in between two of John's ribs. He’s going to have to stretch the wound a little to get a decent angle and an effective grip. 

“John, I’m really sorry, this is going to hurt a lot.” 

“I know, I know. Just do what you need to do to get it out.” 

Rodney pushes the flesh apart and John cries out in pain, slamming his head down on the seat beneath it as tears stream down his face. He kicks the other end of the couch with his feet, knocking the cushions onto the floor. Rodney tells Miska to move out of the way before John slams a foot into the side of her head. Quickly; he has to do this quickly. He forces the tweezers apart then pushes the tips snugly down either side of the bullet as John sucks in a breath through his teeth. Keeping a strong grip he tugs slowly. The bullet dislodges from between the bones and in a final, fluid motion he pulls it out of John's torso. John slumps back into the sofa with an exhale, passing out from the pain. Rodney tries not to panic, knows it’s just a shock reaction to getting shot and having a massive bit of metal removed from his body (and dear God, the bullet is huge), but the sight of John vulnerable and unconscious makes his hands shake and his heart hammer. He drops the bullet on the floor and grabs the disinfectant and some sterile swabs to clean out the wound, taking advantage of the opportunity to sluice it without causing John any more pain. 

Miska’s done well to keep calm since the first shot rang out, but her pacing around the couch betrays her unease. Rodney lets her approach John now that he’s not flailing around and she comes up to him and puts her head on his calf, watching what Rodney’s doing with her bright blue eyes. Rodney cuts some tape to size with a pair of scissors and fixes a dressing neatly to John’s side, thankful that the blood was minimal and has stopped flowing. When John stirs, Rodney takes his face in his hands and kisses him on the mouth. 

“Hey,” croaks John, opening his eyes. 

“I love you,” whispers Rodney to his lover for the first time in his life, and he means it with all the joy and the fear that comes with those three words. 

“I love you too,” says John, smiling, and he shuffles to the back of the couch to pull Rodney down to lie next to him. 

“You know, there are several perfectly serviceable beds upstairs,” grumbles Rodney. 

“But the couch is right here.” 

“Hmph.” 

Miska butts her head into Rodney’s back and he sighs. “Yes, yes, alright, you too. Up you get,” he says, and he pats the sofa for her to come up over their legs. She settles down between their calves and yawns, laying her head down on John’s thigh. 

“We’ve spoiled her,” says Rodney, scratching behind her ears. 

“It’s what she deserves,” replies John, burrowing his face into Rodney’s chest. They fall asleep together, curled up around each other on the narrow couch, exhausted from adrenaline and blood loss and the bitter cold outside. 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not until he wakes up in the middle of the night that Rodney finds himself feeling remorseful, remembering with a start the woman in the barn. This was her house: she lit the fire that’s burning in the stove, cooked the venison stew that’s simmering in the pot, sewed the patch on the checked shirt draped across the chair. They killed her and now they’re taking up the spaces she inhabited. Rodney isn’t sure that he wouldn’t have done exactly what she did, protected his home from possibly-bandits and his person from maybe-rapists. Especially considering the moments leading up to Rodney’s only human kill. Who's to say that Molly didn’t have similar experiences fuelling her aim? When Rodney thinks back to that moment, when he walked into their home to find John overpowered and held down, it fills him with a rage and an all-consuming fear. He’d do anything to protect John from harm, and that’s why he doesn’t often get eaten up about what he did to the man who tried to hurt him. But what they did to Molly could have been avoided if she’d only announced herself, opened a dialogue, even just warned them off. They would have respected her wishes. 

John’s resting peacefully despite his injury. Rodney watches him breathe by the light of the fire, grateful that his ribs stopped the bullet from tearing him apart from the inside. He doesn’t know what he would have done if John had died on him. It scares him, not just because he doesn’t want to lose the man that he...god...he loves, but also because if John dies, he will probably never talk to another living, breathing human being again. That kind of isolation isn’t something he could survive. Besides, Miska would never forgive him. Rodney might be the one that feeds her but John is the one that can throw a stick 45 paces (Rodney measured it). He looks down at Miska to find that she is awake and watching him with unblinking eyes, tongue hanging out as she pants softly. 

“How did I ever think you were a wolf,” Rodney whispers to her. “You’re a total fluffball.” 

“You squealed like a girl when she found us,” says John, chuckling. 

“You’re awake.” 

“Have to be, with the two of you breathing all over me. Help me up?” 

Rodney rolls off the couch ungracefully then stands and helps John to sit up against the backrest. Miska jumps down and pads around the house, something she hasn’t done since they got here. Rodney assumes she preferred to keep an injured John in her line of sight, but who’s to say what goes through the mind of a dog? John’s looking a lot better, has some colour in his cheeks and strength in his arms, and when Rodney fetches them some of the venison stew he eats it with enthusiasm. To be fair it’s the best food they’ve had since they crash-landed. They’ve been subsisting on stale MREs and hunted venison, without many of the store cupboard ingredients to make more of a meal out of it. This has genuine sage and garlic, two flavours that Rodney absolutely adores. They finish the entire pan, dishing a generous portion out for Miska for when she’s done exploring. Rodney puts the plates by the sink then settles back down on the couch next to John to sleep again. 

*** 

They wake the second time to the cool beams of sunrise streaming through the window slats and lighting up the room. Rodney takes the opportunity to raid the upstairs, his middle-of-the-night-musings no deterrent to his survival instincts. Two of the three bedrooms are bare; unused spare rooms without any kind of personal touch. The master bedroom is an Aladdin’s cave of knickknacks – old farming magazines, newspapers clippings of livestock for sale, hunting paraphernalia, and a rack of well-worn lady's winter boots. There’s a treadle sewing machine in one corner, a handful of rusted candle holders on the window sill, and an old, well-loved bearskin coat hanging up on the back of the door. The coat must be the warmest thing on the island but it’s far too heavy and unwieldy for the kind of day-to-day work that they have to do. 

Rodney hits the jackpot when he rummages through the drawers, though. A two-pack of brand-new, merino wool, thermal climbing socks. Pleased with his find he grabs them and goes to close the drawer when something catches his eye; a framed photograph lying face down on the top of the dresser. He picks it up and turns it over. It’s a black and white picture in a tarnished silver frame of Molly on her wedding day. She’s standing next to what must be her husband, wearing an old-fashioned lace wedding dress. She looks less than ecstatic, her mouth turned down at the corners and her shoulders slumped. Her husband is holding onto her arm a little too tight, even in the faded and blurry photograph Rodney can tell his grip would leave a bruise. He wonders if that is the root of her animosity towards them; two strange men encroaching on her territory when she has a bad history with one unpleasant and tight-fisted husband. There are no signs of cohabitation in the room that he’s noticed, no men’s clothing or boots, no razor or shaving foam on the sink. Whoever he was he’s not a part of her life any more, but it’s noteworthy that she kept the photograph, even if she couldn’t bring herself to look at it. 

Back downstairs, John’s thrilled with Rodney’s find, replaces his socks straight away with the new ones and wiggles his toes happily before he puts his boots back on. They’ve thoroughly foraged the area around the camp office they call home, but this is the first time they’ve found something brand new. Rodney has a merino wool hat and he knows how warm that is, merino wool socks are going to be a game-changer for the state of their feet. He sits down next to John and changes his own. 

“What’s up with Miska?” he asks when he notices the dog sitting next to the door to the basement. 

“She hasn’t moved from the door since you went upstairs. I think she wants to explore the basement.” 

“There’s nothing down there, just old furniture and some crates of junk.” 

“Still, she’s led us to things before...” 

“Oh, alright. Let’s check it out.” 

The second Rodney opens the door Miska trots down the steps. Rodney lets John go ahead of him, watches him tread carefully as he descends holding tightly onto the rail. It’s cold down here, the warmth of the stove doesn’t penetrate the old brick, and the mist of their breath swirls in the air. 

“Miska?” says John. “What is it, girl?” 

Miska’s standing around the corner next to a table draped in a tarpaulin. Rodney noted it when he searched the basement for supplies last night. She jumps up, paws landing on the top and barks for attention. Suddenly Rodney doesn’t want to be down there anymore, doesn’t want to see what’s under the cover, but when John calls Miska down and heads over, Rodney follows despite himself. John flips back the tarpaulin and Rodney’s not surprised to see the frozen dead body, but he is surprised to see it’s the same man that was in the photograph upstairs. 

“It’s her husband,” he says. 

“How do you know that?” asks John. 

“There’s a wedding photo in the upstairs bedroom.” 

“Oh.” 

Rodney peers at the body, takes in the weathered face and farming clothes. “Do you think she killed him?” 

“No, I think wolves got him.” John pulls the tarpaulin further down, revealing bloody tears on the clothes. “Look, he has bite marks all down his body.” 

“So she was, what, keeping him for posterity?” 

“Can’t bury people in the frozen ground, Rodney, remember? She was probably waiting for it to thaw out a little.” 

It’s late April and the ground is still frozen solid, won’t thaw out until mid-June at the earliest, assuming the temperature actually rises above freezing this year. Rodney doesn't plan to stay away from home long enough to be here when that happens. “What are we going to do with Molly?” he asks, mindful that John might still be reeling from having shot her. 

“There’s not a lot we can do.” 

“Seems heartless to leave her in the rafters of the barn.” 

John looks around the basement like there might be some inspiration hiding in the dark corners. “We could bring her down here to be with her husband?” he says. 

“No, I don’t think their marriage was a happy one,” says Rodney. “The wedding photo has an air of despondency. Definitely not a love match.” 

“Then I’m at a loss.” 

“It seems heartless to do nothing.” 

“We don’t owe her anything, Rodney. She tried to kill us.” 

“But-” 

“We’ve been through this before.” 

“And it feels just as wrong now as it did then.” 

“I know buddy, but it’s just not practical, and in a place like this you have to be all about the practical.” 

Rodney sighs, but he knows that John is right. They can’t afford to get sentimental. They might have a routine now, but daily life is still about survival. Just because they can spend some of their time preparing for the future doesn’t mean it’s not still dangerous. 

*** 

Rodney wants to leave John to recover in the house while he checks out the town alone, but John refuses point-blank. 

“I’m not letting you go wandering around on your own,” he says as he climbs the stairs. “If there are other people you could get hurt. I’m half-convinced that we should give up on going to Thomson’s Crossing and just pack up and go home.” 

“We didn’t come all this way just to turn back now,” says Rodney, closing the basement door. “Look, are you sure you’re up for a hike into town? We could wait until tomorrow.” 

“I’m not that badly wounded,” says John. “Besides, it’s feeling a lot better today. I can handle it.” 

They grab their backpacks and a rifle each. When Rodney grabs Molly’s cherry wood rifle, John swaps it out for their old one “because you actually know how to shoot that one...look, Rodney, guns are like people, no two are exactly the same.” The only reason Rodney picked up Molly’s rifle in the first place is that he thought John might be feeling bad about yesterday. Clearly he’s much more military than he lets on if he’s processed it that quickly. 

They stock up the stove before they close the house up tight, agreeing that it’s a good base of operations despite being three kilometres from the town and having not one, but two dead bodies in the vicinity. All going well they’ll search for supplies then spend the night back here, setting off for home early the next morning. Miska rushes off the moment they step onto the porch and they can hear her up ahead as they traverse the track to the main road. She’s sitting outside the barn, barking up at the window above the door, where Rodney knows Molly lies. There are crows flitting in and out of the window, and for a moment Rodney is bombarded with the image of them feasting on her eyeballs before he stuffs it down into the recesses of his mind and carries on. John wouldn’t approve of him dwelling on something that can’t be changed. 

John calls Miska over as they pass by. She tumbles over to them through the snow, tongue lolling in her mouth and tail curled up over her back. Rodney’s never had a dog before, but he loves Miska like she’s a person. It’s different from how he loved his cat, Hypatia. Miska is affectionate, needy and playful where Hypatia was quieter, more reserved and self-sufficient. Rodney knows Miska is capable of taking care of herself, had to for months before they found her, but it’s hard to imagine now that she’s become a thoroughly spoiled house pet. The one thing she has in common with Hypatia is a love of tummy rubs. Rodney hopes that his cat is living a happy life with his neighbour where he left her when he was called to CERN’s Hadron Collider in Geneva. He hasn’t thought about the research he was doing there for many months now, since before the crash but it was ground-breaking. 

“You know I have a Nobel prize?” he asks John as they cross a bridge over a frozen river. 

“You’ve mentioned it,” says John, losing a battle with a smile. “Once or twice.” 

“I would have won another one if we hadn’t ended up here.” 

“Really?” 

“I was at the LHC in Geneva when I got the call to come up to Thule. Have you heard of the Higgs boson?” 

“The God Particle?” asks John, stepping off the road and onto the verge. 

“Oh my God, don’t call it that!” exclaims Rodney. 

“That’s what the papers were calling it,” shrugs John. 

“We found it.” 

“You did?!” 

“The day before I got on the plane. I almost didn’t come, that’s how big a deal it was. But when General Hammond called, he made it clear that something was terribly wrong and I had to get there ASAP. What we did in Geneva was ground-breaking particle physics. It would have changed the world.” 

“You seem to have a history of changing the world,” muses John, fiddling with his rifle. “You were exhausted when I picked you up in Yellowknife. No wonder if you’d flown in from Geneva.” 

“I spent the entire night on a military transport plane with a bunch of marines,” huffs Rodney. “To say the tone of the cabin was through the floor would be an understatement.” 

John laughs. “Yeah, it’s really not much better in the Air Force,” he admits. 

“And yet, you turned out to be a perfect gentleman.” Rodney cups his hand over his eyes to block out the sun and peers at John. “Why is that?” 

“I can be crass if you want.” 

“Pass.” 

“Thought so,” says John. “I’m just...I was kind of a loner. Other than Holland, I mean, and he was a God-fearing man who loved his wife more than anything in the world. Wouldn’t even take the lord’s name in vain. I didn’t really hang out with anyone else. Spent most of my time on base training. If I wasn’t training I was tinkering with the engineers.” 

“Engineers are good people.” 

“The best. Especially the one I’m with right now.” 

Rodney feels himself flush. It’s been a few months but it’s still new enough, this thing between them, to quicken his heart at such declarations. John must notice because he chuckles then stops Rodney with a hand on his arm. He looks around, scanning the horizon for a moment, then leans in and kisses Rodney on the mouth with cold lips. Rodney responds, enthusiastically and tries to get closer but the rifles clunk together, reminding them both that it might not be safe out here. They part, Rodney looking at his shoes and John rubbing the back of his neck. 

“So..” begins Rodney. 

“Yeah,” says John. 

Miska comes sprinting back from up ahead, almost knocking them over with her excitement as she passes between them to rush at a hare, and Rodney has to grab her by the collar to get her to calm down. 

“Miska! Stay!” 

She looks up at him with her puppy dog eyes, but Rodney’s not fooled. 

“Don’t give me that look, you overgrown lap dog. I know you like to hunt but you’re not really hungry and I’m not carrying carrion in my bag.” 

She tilts her head at him and he sighs. 

“Get going. Go on, scram,” says Rodney. As Miska rushes off, they carry on. “Do you think she’s happy?” he asks John, watching Miska frolic up ahead. 

“Of course she is,” says John. “She has food, shelter, hapless minions that cater to her every whim...” 

“We do not,” scoffs Rodney. 

“Oh yes, we do. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you rub her tummy whenever she rolls on her back. She has you well trained, you know.” 

“She’s just so cute-” 

“Adorable.” 

“--I can’t help myself. I’m glad the months she spent alone didn’t beat the good out of her. She could easily have become traumatised out in the wilderness with the wolves.” 

“Speaking of traumatised...um...” John hesitates and Rodney can feel the bashfulness wash off him in waves. 

“What?” 

“Do you think we ought to...put her out when we...uh...you know...” 

“No, I don’t know, I can’t read your- Oh! Oh. Um. No. I don’t think she cares. I mean unless you want to, but she usually falls asleep and it would be cruel to put her out in the cold just so we can...uh...I mean it’s not like we’re doing anything she’s never seen before, I don’t think. Besides, she can always go downstairs if she wants to.” 

“So we should just...” 

“Not worrying about it seems the best course of action.” 

“Right.” 

As they round a corner and come upon a second bridge, Thomson’s Crossing comes into view, and it’s a lot smaller than Rodney was anticipating. He can see a large building, a steepled church, and a handful of other, smaller, cabins. There’s no sign of a supermarket, no doctor’s surgery or pharmacy. It’s Rural with a capital R, and from the looks of things, completely deserted. 

“Should we call out?” asks Rodney. “So there are no surprises?” 

“Might be a good idea, I mean-” 

“HELLO?! ANYONE HERE?!” 

“Jesus-fuck, Rodney!” exclaims John. “Give a guy a little warning.” 

“Oh. Sorry. Well, I guess there’s no one here.” 

“You think? They probably heard you all the way in Thule.” 

“Well, if they did, I hope they send rescue.” 

John gives Rodney the side-eye. “And how would rescue reach us?” 

“Uh...longboat and a dogsled?" 

They come to a stop outside a community hall at the edge of the settlement. 

“You know, this really isn’t a town,” moans Rodney. “It’s not even a village.” 

“But look,” says John. “A shop.” 

Rodney looks over the mid-sized building, the only one with a sign. ‘Thomson’s Market’. “I guess we should start there then,” he says, mournfully. 

John bumps his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s see what there is.” 

The door to the shop is locked, but it doesn’t take much effort for John to open it with his knife. Like most rural shops it’s a multi-functional store, with a post office counter and a pharmacy as well as the rows of produce and equipment. Rodney makes a beeline for the pharmacy and is thankful to see that the shelves are almost fully stocked. People must have been expecting to come back, or else they didn’t have a lot of time to relocate. He wonders idly why Molly didn’t leave with the rest of them, has a horrible suspicion that it had something to do with her deadbeat husband. 

The pharmacy has a full complement of analgesics, antibiotics, and antiemetics, and Rodney empties an entire shelf into his rucksack only to run out of room. 

“Damn,” he says, looking around the shop. “John, give me your pack.” 

John comes over from where he was trying on sunglasses, a pair of aviators over his eyes. 

“What do you think?” he asks. 

“Very Top Gun,” replies Rodney. 

John grumbles and takes the glasses off, dropping them on the counter. “I hated that movie.” 

“I need your pack,” insists Rodney. “There’s a lifetime supply of meds here.” 

John leans his hip against the door frame, “Okay, but consider...we could do with more than just painkillers. There’s a lot of useful stuff.” 

“How are we going to get it home?” 

“Same way we cleared out the cabins around Mystery Lake. Let’s pack up a sled. The slope on this side of the mountain pass isn’t all that steep and it’s all downhill on the other side. We should use that to our advantage and take as much as we can." 

John pulls Rodney to the back of the store where the sleds are hanging. There isn’t much of a selection, just a couple of wooden one-man sleds, a low-lying dogsled and a handful of harnesses (both canine and human). Still, they’ll get the job done. Between the two of them, they’ll manage to get one up the pass, and it won’t be so heavy they’ll lose control on the other side. 

“We could take one each,” says John, lifting a sled off the wall. 

“But you’ve been shot,” says Rodney, frowning. 

“Yeah, but the harness won’t touch the wound, and I can take a painkiller. I don’t want to have to come back here because we’ve forgotten something. It’s a long trek, and yeah, you were right, it wasn’t all that hard, but it’s still risky.” 

Rodney mulls this over. “How about we have one sled of things we need and one of the things we want. That way if it’s too much for you we can easily dump one on the trail back home. Who knows, maybe we’d get it far enough that we could come back for it another day.” 

"Sounds like a plan.” John lifts a second sled off the wall and pulls it to the front of the store. “I’ll start in the back.” 

“I’ll start in the pharmacy,” says Rodney. “The more meds we can get, the better.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Rodney finds some large boxes in the back and packs up every last packet of pills he can find; everything from Tylenol to Valium to TUMS chews. There’s a varied and extensive selection despite it being such a remote collection, and Rodney’s glad for it. They’ve been lucky so far, avoiding any serious injury or illness, but that luck can’t hold out forever. The liquid medications he combs through, taking the liquid morphine and the Epi-pens, but leaving behind the glass bottles of liquid antacids to keep the weight as low as possible. John comes up to him as he’s placing the medication boxes onto the sled. He clears his throat, the tips of his ears and the high points of his cheeks blushing furiously. 

“Hey Rodney...” he says, eyes fixed somewhere over Rodney’s shoulder. 

“What’s up?” 

“I found some stuff. Was wondering if we were going to...I mean if you wanted to, we could...I’m not sure if...but it’s a possibility. Maybe.” 

“What on earth are you babbling about?” 

John holds something out and Rodney takes it from his hands. It’s a box of KY jelly. “Oh, no,” he says, handing it back. 

John backs up, holding his hands up in surrender in front of him. “It was just an idea, I-” 

“No, I mean yes, we can. But no, that’s the wrong type. It needs to be silicone or oil-based for what you’re thinking of. I am on board with that, absolutely.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So...silicone?” 

“Don’t ask how I know that. Or, well, do...but not, like, right now.” 

Rodney watches as John very carefully, and very neatly, puts the water-based KY back and slides out an entire stack of silicone lube. He doesn’t so much as smirk when John tumbles them into the box next to the morphine, but it’s a near thing. 

*** 

They hover over the foodstuffs, enticed by the tinned fruit and veg and soup, but it’s thirty kilometres back home and that’s a long way to drag a bunch of tins when the weight could be used elsewhere (especially considering that they already have reliable sources of food). Rodney grabs all the multi-vitamin pills in the building as a compromise, hoping that the added nutrients will go some way towards making up for the lack of leafy greens in their diet. If only they had a truck that they could weigh down with supplies, they’d be able to pack up everything in the shop and drive it back to Mystery Lake. 

Next to the tinned produce is a section of ground spices and herbs in little plastic tubs. Rodney stacks all of them up in a half-empty box on the ‘want’ sled, then adds the little boxes of stock cubes for good measure. If they have to have a limited diet the very least they can do is differentiate meals by flavour. At the end of the aisle are the cleaning products, and he picks up a large bottle of bleach, turning it in his hand to read the label. 

“Do we need bleach?” he asks John. Over the top of the shelves. 

“You never know when you might need to sterilise something,” says John. “Take a bottle, but we’ll keep it for emergency use only.” 

As well as the bleach, Rodney grabs a brand-new bucket, filling it with dish soap and a scrubbing brush. John comes back with what must be all the bars of hand soap in the whole shop, plus a couple of facecloths. He shoves them in with the herbs on the ‘want’ sled; technically they have soap at home (even if it is kind of gross) and a couple of torn t-shirts for bathing, but it’s not the same as honest to god flannel. Three kilos of chocolate join the soap, as well as a couple of boxes of water purification tablets and two ambient temperature thermometers, ranging from minus sixty up to plus fifty. Rodney hopes it never actually gets that cold, even with both stoves lit it would be a struggle to stay warm. 

When he finds the coffee, Rodney lets out a genuine whoop of joy; two large sacks of coarse ground, Jamaican Blue Mountain just sitting on a counter, waiting to be rehomed. It’s better than he’d hoped, and he grabs both and drops them onto the ‘need’ sled with a thunk. John comes round at the noise, takes one look at the coffee bags and sighs. 

“Not a chance, Rodney. They go on the other one.” 

“No way, I need these.” 

“Coffee is a luxury, not a must-have.” 

“It’s essential to me.” 

“It’s an indulgence.” 

They go back and forth for a while, and things start to get heated when John accuses Rodney of having skewed priorities and Rodney accuses John of being a killjoy. They don’t shout, but the tone gets increasingly snippy and neither of them back down. Miska gets more and more skittish at the aggression, pacing back and forth next to them until finally she growls at them and they both stop, stunned, and turn to look at her. She barks and they both look back at each other sheepishly. It’s Rodney that breaks first. 

“You’re right, it’s not essential,” he says, flexing his hands anxiously. 

“How about this,” says John. “One on each sled.” 

It’s a good compromise, one Rodney should have thought of from the get-go. "Yeah, that’s...yeah, okay.” 

Rodney’s left feeling decidedly anxious about the heated exchange (they’re never actually disagreed about anything, let alone argued with each other) until John smiles shyly at him. His stress dissolves into the ether as he realises that they’re made of stronger stuff than any stupid squabble can break apart. He kisses John softly on the mouth. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Me too, buddy,” replies John, rubbing Rodney’s arms gently. 

Rodney transfers one of the bags of coffee to the other sled, then goes on the hunt for Coffee-Mate. He finds it near the back of the shop and carries all six tubs back to John, who takes three and packs them up on one sled while Rodney does the same with the other. For a short time, at least, they’ll be able to have a milky morning coffee, and that will do a lot for their morale. 

Packing done, John drags the sleds outside then does a final check of the store to make sure they’re not missing anything vital. He grabs a couple of packs of bungee cords and some tarpaulins on his way out, and they spend a good half hour tying everything down, Rodney using his strength to pull the cords taught and John using his boy scout knowledge of knots to tie them down in intricate loops. When they’re secure they take turns with both sleds, passing up and down the main street to check if the weights are manageable. The 'want' sled is significantly heavier than the ‘need’ one, and Rodney insists on taking that one to spare John the effort with his bullet wound. For once, John doesn’t protest in manly offence, just takes control of the sled he’s been assigned. They park them next to the community hall and Rodney pivots on the spot. 

“Do you think we should check the cabins?” he asks. 

“I’m not sure we could carry any more.” 

“No, not for anything significantly heavy, but we’re here and we should cover all bases. See if there’s anything we didn’t think of.” 

A side road splits off the main road, past the community hall and curving down towards the river, lined on either side with a handful of wooden cabins. John peers down the road, and Rodney can tell that he’s weighing their survival needs versus their civility. It’s one thing to clear out seasonal hunting cabins or a commercial building. It’s another thing entirely to clear out people’s homes. 

“It’s such a small village,” says Rodney. “They must have had a lot of community spirit to have needed both a hall and a church.” 

John chews his bottom lips. 

“What I’m saying,” continues Rodney, “is that the kind of people who build community spaces like that are the kind of people who would help out a stranger in need. It’s the neighbourly thing to do.” 

“Yeah, alright. But only mission essential gear, nothing that looks like it might have sentimental value.” 

*** 

A cursory check in the windows of all the cabins confirms that the residents of Thomson’s Crossing were evacuated in a hurry. There are sinks of dishes, full laundry baskets and boardgames left mid-play. None of the doors are locked, which gives credence to the rural community feel that Rodney’s been getting from the settlement. It seems like they expected to come back relatively quickly, but half-read newspapers give a date in April last year, just like the newspapers in the derailed train near home. There must have been a co-ordinated, island-wide evacuation, and its efficiency speaks to military planning. Whether it was the Canadian military or the US, there’s no way to know for sure, but Rodney suspects they are both in on what was going on. 

The décor of one of the cabins evinces a hunter’s life and John finds a stash of guns and ammunition in the kitchen along with some military medals, a Victoria Cross in pride of place. He grabs the .303 ammo, but leaves everything else where it is, telling Rodney that you can’t deplete a servicewoman’s entire stash but such a decorated officer wouldn’t begrudge them her hunting ammo. Rodney smiles to himself when John writes her a note telling her who they are and their predicament, thanking her for her service and promising that if things return to normal, he’ll return the ammunition with interest. He places it under a clean glass on the kitchen counter and closes the cupboards with a soft thud. Rodney wants to check out the other rooms but has a feeling that John’s reached his limit when it comes to raiding the house of a fellow officer so settles for a brief glance in the bedroom which reveals nothing more than a drying rack laden with a woman’s unmentionables and a cross-trainer. 

There’s little of note in most of the other cabins, personal effects and homewares mostly, but the very last cabin on the lane holds some things that are worth their weight in gold. The whole house is a testament to a life long-lived: photos of the generations of a large family, trinkets and knickknacks and traditional home crafts that speak of advancing years. There are patchwork quilts on every bed, shawls draped over every chair, and a knitting project left on a table next to a well-used rocking chair waiting to be picked up again. On the kitchen table, they find two brown paper parcels tied with string addressed to the Warm Hands Network in Milton, a charity that Rodney knows a little about thanks to Jeannie. 

“They’re knitted donations to people in need,” he tells John. “Jeannie sends them a few things every winter. They have chapters all across Canada.” 

“So it’s like...hand-knitted care packages?” asks John. 

“Something like that.” Rodney picks up a package and gives it a squeeze. “I think we count.” 

“For a care package?” 

“Yeah. We’re desperately in need of some home comforts.” 

John’s brow furrows. “We could...” He licks his lips. “...maybe take a look?” 

They unwrap the parcels to reveal two big, patterned sweaters in dark blues and greens with sturdy cuffs and necklines. They’re soft to the touch, obviously natural wool, not acrylic, and lighter than any sweater has any right to be. Clearly, the knitter has some exceptional skills. 

“We could really use these,” says Rodney, holding his up to check for size. 

“Yeah.” 

“They are intended as donations.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So...” Rodney waits as John thinks it through. 

“Okay,” says John eventually. "But only because they’re don’t belong to anyone in particular.” 

Rodney removes his jacket then strips off his synthetic and scratchy sweater. It has holes in one elbow and dropped stitches running down his forearm and he’s glad to be rid of it. He pulls on the new sweater, basking in the softness and the warmth. It’s a little big for him, the sleeves hang down past his wrists, but it’s comfortable and cosy. John puts on his and looks great in the new one, like a model in a deliberately oversized sweater with his spiky hair and svelte lines, and Rodney takes a moment to just look at him and his beautiful face. 

“What?” asks John. “Is there something on my face?” 

“You're just so...uhh,” replies Rodney and John laughs. 

“C’mere,” he says and pulls Rodney towards him by the scruff of his sweater. He wraps his arms around Rodney’s shoulders and presses a kiss to his neck. Rodney glides his hands up underneath the jumper, pulling back sharply when John winces. 

“Sorry, sorry.” He’d forgotten about the wound that John’s sporting on his ribcage. It’ll be a miracle if the ribs aren’t fractured, and the healing time will be weeks long, but he’s alive and that’s the most important thing. Rodney’s thankful for Molly’s bad aim and John’s quick reflexes. 

They leave the old sweaters on the kitchen table amongst the discarded paper, and wrap back up in their outer jackets, heading outside to where they left Miska playing in the snow. She bounds up to them when she hears them come out, puffs of snow flying through the air when she makes an emergency stop right in front of them. 

“Come on, mutt,” grins Rodney, and he steps down from the porch onto the road. “Did you want to check out the church?” 

“Not really,” says John. “I had my fill of the chapel in Bagram. Holland went every Sunday, dragged me with him. There’s nothing there but death and false hope.” 

“And candles,” says Rodney, smugly. 

“Oh. Well, that’s-” 

“You wait here, I’ll go grab them.” 

Rodney leaves John with Miska and enters the church on the other side of the road. It’s small and modest but still eerily cavernous, his footsteps echoing through the great hall. A door at the far end leads to the sacristy, and he searches inside the cupboard there and the drawers of the desk, finally finding an abundance of tealights inside a trunk under the window. There are rather a lot of them and he takes them all, piling them into a canvas bag he lifts from a hook on the back of the door. He’s eager to get out of the building, feels a little vulnerable without John even though he has a rifle with him. They’ve not encountered another living soul since Molly, but if someone wanted to hide from him there’s no better place than a church full of pews. When he comes back out into the nave of the church he hears a faint scratching noise up in the rafters and starts imagining that there might be someone up there, watching him and waiting for an opportune moment. Spooked, he runs down the aisle between the pews and out of the church, slamming the door and flinging himself down the steps so fast that John’s head snaps up and he raises his gun, aiming over Rodney’s shoulder. 

“Problem?” he asks. 

“No,” pants Rodney. “Just my overactive imagination.” 

John lowers the gun and reaches out a hand. 

“What?” asks Rodney. 

John doesn’t say anything, just keeps his hand outstretched towards Rodney and- Oh. Rodney takes the offered hand and interlocks their fingers, holding on tight and feeling his quickened pulse even out at the touch. They walk like that back to the main road where they left the sleds, Miska following closely behind them. 

*** 

“I wanna check out the hall before we go,” says Rodney after he’s found a space for the candles on John’s sled. 

“We’ve got time,” says John, squinting up at the cloud-covered sky. “Sun’s still high.” 

“Come with me?” 

“Sure.” 

The double doors to the community hall are locked, but they get in through an open kitchen door round the back. It seems that the people of Thomson’s Crossing regularly have community meals here; there are long tables and stacks of cheap plastic chairs pressed against the far wall. A stage dominates the room, with a lectern and a row of armchairs in the centre of it. Some kind of town meeting perhaps? Rodney’s been to a couple where he used to live but he hates the ceremony and pomp, the shouting and arguing, the never getting anything done. He wonders how it was here, if they managed to address issues with an air of compromise or if they resorted to hair pulling and catfighting over the budget for tea and coffee. 

There’s little else of interest, some notice boards advertising various events and items for swap or sale, an office with a computer and a barren filing cabinet. Rodney finds a stack of empty notebooks in the desk drawers that he swipes, wanting to continue working on some of the millennium problems in his spare time. John finds a book-swap shelf in the foyer with a handful of novels in English and a whole bunch in French. He picks out three of the English ones (Anna Karenina, Little Women, and The Lord of the Rings) but leaves behind two; War and Peace (“I’ve already read it.”) and Fifty Shades of Grey (”Just no.”). 

When they leave it’s through the front door that they unlock from the inside. Rodney stuffs his notebooks in his rucksack, pushing the limits of the stitching as far as it will go, and John finds space for his novels in his own. They tie them to the sleds before putting on the harnesses and setting off back up the road to Molly’s farmhouse. It’s relatively easy going with the ice being so smooth and the road being mostly flat. Rodney expects they’ll need to take frequent breaks when they pull the sleds up the mountain pass, but that’s tomorrow’s problem, not today’s. 

*** 

“Tell me about the lube,” says John when he finishes eating. 

Rodney takes the plates to the sink he’s filled up with hot water. “What do you want to know?” he asks as he wipes them clean. 

“How did you know which one we needed?” 

“Research for an ex-girlfriend. She wanted to try it.” 

John shifts onto his back on the couch. “Does this ex-girlfriend have a name?” 

“Jennifer. Keller. She was a medical doctor.” 

“Was?” 

“She died.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry, buddy.” 

Finished with the dishes, Rodney dries his hands and goes to sit beside John. “We weren’t together when she died, but we were still friends. One of Carter’s ‘improvements’ exploded, killed a couple of people and injured a bunch more. Jennifer was trying to treat someone when a secondary reaction caused another explosion. She and the scientist she was working on got caught up in it.” 

“Jesus,” says John. “How did Carter get away with all that collateral damage?” 

“She got it right more often than she got it wrong, though I honestly think that was dumb luck on her part. If she was a civilian it wouldn’t have mattered, but being military gave her a certain amount of protection, especially because her research was so often highly classified. That and General Hammond had a massive soft spot for her, treated her like a daughter.” 

“She seemed so nice, so on the level. It’s hard to believe the Carter I hung out with is the same one you used to work with.” 

“I'm pretty sure there’s only one of her. Though if her multiverse theory panned out you never know.” 

“Wow.” John stretches out and taps Rodney’s knee with his socked foot. “So. Did you do it?” 

“Huh?” asks Rodney, distracted by the exposed band of skin where John’s top has ridden up. He reaches out to touch it with his fingertips. 

“The thing. With Jennifer Keller M.D.” 

“No, we crashed and burned way before we got round to it.” Rodney glides his hand up under John’s t-shirt and strokes his collarbone. 

“Shame.” 

“Considering this is the longest relationship I’ve ever had...I’d much rather try something new with you.” 

“Something to look forward to,” says John, shivering from Rodney’s touch. 

“Indeed,” says Rodney as he bends down to kiss John’s stomach. 


	5. Chapter 5

It’s still dark when John kisses Rodney awake, the sunrise just the faintest glow on the horizon. They dress and make their way outside to the sleds, feet crunching in the snow, the farmland glittering in the silvery moonlight. Miska’s sluggish and sulky but follows them faithfully as they gear up and start to pull the sleds out from the awning of the farmhouse. The sun will be up over the mountains by the time they pull off the main road, but they wanted to set off as early as possible to account for the extra weight. As they pass the barn Rodney gives the darkened window above the door one last unhappy look. They came here with such noble intentions and are leaving with a sadness that will take time to heal. John refuses to talk about it, but by his own admission he had never killed a woman before. It’s significant, no matter how often Rodney tells himself that all lives are equal. Violence against women is extrinsic to Rodney’s core values, and he knows it’s the same for John. To have been in a position where he was forced to kill one is painful for them both, and Rodney wonders if John would have been able to pull the trigger so readily if he had known the sniper was female at the time. Would he maybe have tried calling out to her first? Or does his military training enable him to take out any threat no matter what? 

They follow the road West, crossing in front of the ridge the radio tower sits on. Even in the darkness, the rocky cliff stands out in stark contrast with the snowy hills surrounding it, and Rodney is reminded of a visit to the Grand Canyon with his sister and niece. They spent a whole week driving between tourist attractions, visiting hotspots and hiking. Rodney was a scientist (is still a scientist, dammit) and his whole life to that point had been spent at a computer desk running numbers. To say the experience had been a lesson in his physical frailty would be an understatement. Maddie rushed back and forth taking pictures of canyons and cliffs from all angles, but Rodney spent the whole time a sweaty, irritable mess. It was a wasted experience on him; he was so busy feeling miserable in his lack of fitness that he didn’t really stop to look at the beauty all around him. Despite the miserable cold and the complete lack of civilisation, he does appreciate the beauty of Great Bear Island as they explore more and more of it; the forests and the frozen rivers, the birds and the deer. (He’s seen more sunrises since they crashed here than he did in the whole of his life up until that point.) 

God. If only he could go back there now. Take another trip with Jeannie and Maddie in this survival-honed body. Rodney would more than keep up and the burning sun would be such a reprieve from the bitter cold of Northern Canada. His family could meet John, get to know and love him as he does. Jeannie would be cautious at first, the few times she met Rodney’s girlfriends she hated them on sight, but John’s different and she would surely see that. He has no doubt that Maddie would take to him instantly make demands of gifts and swing pushes and “come watch Ariel with me, Uncle John!”. What he wouldn’t give to see them again. All he can do is hope that they are safe and well where they are, to think otherwise would make his life unbearable. 

They turn off the road onto the logging trail and start the gentle ascent side by side. Rodney looks over to John, who seems to be in his element, but then he was always a very physical person. John notices him looking, turns his head and smiles. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Just looking,” says Rodney. 

John gives him a leer. “Looking’s free. The rest will cost you.” 

Rodney reaches out to check John’ harness. “How are your ribs?” 

“Fine. The straps don’t bother them.” 

“If you need to stop...” Rodney knows he would struggle to pull a sled with a wound like that. 

“Rodney, I once walked a hell of a lot further than thirty kilometres with shrapnel in my legs under the glaring, midday, Afghan sun.” John shrugs. “This is easy.” 

“Right, but we’re not in a warzone, there’s no need to unduly suffer.” 

“I’m fine. Promise.” 

He does seem fine, pushing ahead of Rodney and round the bend, pulling his sled with ease. Rodney picks up the pace to keep up, feeling the strain in his legs as the ground passes by beneath them. 

*** 

As the sun rises higher the chill in the air lifts a little, though it is still well below freezing. They take a lunch break at midday, sitting down on a snowy bank to eat some food they took from the farmhouse; beef jerky and crackers and spoonfuls of peanut butter straight out of the jar. John tells Rodney that it’s the kind of meal a teenager boy might put together when he can't be bothered cooking for himself, and Rodney laughs, thinking of the type of food he ate when, at the tender age of sixteen, he started his first degree course. There was a lot of ramen. 

Rodney feeds Miska some of the peanut butter on a couple of the crackers and she wolfs them down, barely taking the time to chew. Sometimes he worries she’s going to choke on something but she never does. She eats like everything is made of liquid. Even the raw venison that they give her gets sucked up like a vacuum cleaner. She licks her muzzle when she’s done and puts her head in Rodney’s lap, blue eyes wide and staring up at him. He takes off a glove to scratch her behind the ears, taking the time to check her over for any stowaways. He was surprised several months back to find a couple of ticks around her neck. He didn’t realise they could survive in a place this cold. _Where there are deer, there are ticks,_ John had told him. Getting them out was a lesson in patience (a virtue that Rodney has never been accused of having) but he removed them as carefully as if Miska was a new-born baby. Since then he checks her thoroughly almost every day, and she endures his scrutiny with the air of someone who’s humouring him. 

“Don’t ever try to tell me that she’s just a dog to you,” says John, watching them closely. “You treat her like a child.” 

“She needs me,” replies Rodney, wiping away Miska’s eye gunk with his thumbs. “Needs us. Don't you girl?” He leans down and presses a kiss to her snout, and she licks his face in return. 

*** 

From where they are things start to get a little steeper and a little rougher as the track twists its way higher and higher through the valley between the mountains. They pull steadily, arms and legs aching, puffing their way through the strain and taking regular five-minute breaks to rest their muscles. The harness digs into Rodney’s shoulders with the weight of the sled and he knows he’s going to have bruising come tomorrow. For a brief moment he considers giving up altogether on the sleds and heading back home with just their backpacks (the sweaters alone would have made the trip worth it), but he stuffs that thought back down and pushes on. They’ve come so far, the summit is so much closer now, all they have to do is keep going. He tries to keep the image of home in his mind, how the things they are bringing will improve their daily lives, not to mention their meals. And coffee. God, it’s all worth it to be able to drink coffee again, even if it’s only for a few months. If they ration, they might have enough for one each every day for most of the rest of the year (though John will probably argue for one every two days to stretch the supply for longer). Home comforts are few and far between here, there’s no way he’s giving up on what they’ve brought. 

*** 

It was inevitable that one of them would accidentally stray from the track, but Rodney’s surprised that it’s John who takes the misstep. One minute he’s ambling along next to Rodney, the next he’s yanked over onto his side by the harness as the sled slides backwards into the soft verge beneath. Rodney panics for a moment when John doesn’t move, but as he unclips his harness and rushes over he realises that John’s silently laughing, shoulders shaking with the tremors. 

“You bastard,” cries Rodney. “I thought you were dead! Again!” 

“S-sorry!” wheezes John. He takes a deep breath and lets out one last mirthful cackle. “Uhhh, help a guy up?” 

Rodney bends down to unclip John’s harness and pulls him up by his outstretched arms. “What are we going to do with you?” 

John brushes the snow off his trousers briskly. “Shotgun to the head?” he says, grinning. 

“Ugh.” 

“Sorry, too soon?” 

“God, you’re an idiot, you know that?” 

Rodney surveys the wreckage of the sled. The tarpaulin has come loose and some of the boxes are dislodged. They’re going to have to start over, repack everything and tie it down again. They undo all the knots and coil the bungee cord up, then pull the tarpaulin free. One by one they grab the boxes and lay them down on the trail in order of weight and size, repacking a couple whose tops have opened up. John rights the sled, pulling it back where it belongs and angling it so that it has nowhere to go. It’s the work of minutes to reposition the boxes, and the work of a much longer to tie everything down again. Rodney checks and double-checks the cords, tugging at boxes randomly to feel for any weak spots, but when nothing moves he declares it time to get going. They still have a way to go to reach the summit. 

The diversion cost them some of their daylight, but they were already making good time so it’s a loss they can afford as long as nothing else happens to hinder their progress. If they can make it back to the crevice they camped in before they’ll have nothing but downhill for tomorrow, and Rodney really wants this uphill struggle to be over. It’s slow going but they can do it, and this time tomorrow they’ll be home. 

*** 

They park the sleds at the entrance to the crevice and head inside to the cave at the back, carrying their rucksacks with them. The firepit is still there on the ground where they left it but they don’t have any wood to start it up, and Rodney curses his lack of foresight. 

“It’s just one night, Rodney,” soothes John. “We can go without a fire for one night.” 

“It’s too cold, we’re going to freeze to death. Maybe I should go look for some wood.” 

“No way, you’re not going to wander around in the dark.” 

“But-” 

“No. Absolutely not. There could be anything out there. Wolves, bears...just no.” 

Rodney suspects that John’s worried more about dangers in human form but he doesn’t voice his thoughts. 

“Look, we have a living, breathing, furry foot warmer. She’ll keep our temperature up.” John kisses Rodney softly. “You have to keep yourself safe, okay? I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

“Believe me, I know what that feels like,” says Rodney, remembering with a start the sound of Molly’s gun. 

They eat (more crackers and peanut butter) and roll out the sleeping mats and bags. Miska settles herself down over their feet when they get in and rests her head on Rodney’s calf, yawning with her mouth wide which sets Rodney off in turn. He burrows in close to John and looks up at the starry sky above them. Watching the stars always makes him feel so small, so infinitesimal, but it’s hard to feel insignificant with John in his life. Every morning he wakes up and John’s there next to him, warm and solid and real, or downstairs making breakfast, the domestic clatter of pans coming up through the bannister. It’s all Rodney can do not to shout out his feelings in those early morning moments. He has fears, real ones, that if they ever get rescued and brought back to civilisation then John will leave him. It’s pointless and stupid and, god help him, totally adolescent, but he can’t help it. John has become such a big part of his life, both mentally and physically, and he’s made such a big space for him in his heart and head that the loss would be devastating. Outside of his family, there’s no one else he’s been so afraid to lose he could feel it in his gut. He won’t tell John, obviously, that would be unthinkable, but the feeling is there and from time to time it’s overwhelming. 

John pulls Rodney’s head onto his shoulder and kisses his nose. “I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid,” he says. 

“Colour me surprised,” sniffs Rodney. 

“When I joined the Air Force I secretly always hoped it would lead me to NASA. I never did anything about it though, just had this fantasy that my excellent service record would have them chase me down. I used to think about it a lot when I was in Afghanistan. That they’d message my CO and demand my immediate return to the States to start training for a mission.” 

Rodney runs his hands up and down John’s arms, feeling the muscles underneath his sweater. “You would have been a great astronaut. You’re so calm in a crisis. If anything went wrong, you’d have just fixed it.” 

“Hmm. I put all dreams of Mars aside when I got my black mark though.” 

“Well, that was your mistake right there, aiming for Mars. It’s a hunk of rock with hundred kilometre an hour sandstorms. There’s nothing interesting there unless you’re into mining, and you’ve yet to show a passion for ore. You should have dreamed of going to Europa. It’s an ice moon, it probably has oceans, and is the most likely place to find life outside of Earth.” 

“Wouldn’t that be something? Finding life on another planet?” 

“I’m still looking for intelligent life on this planet.” 

John snorts a laugh. “Hey, I’m not so dumb, you know.” 

“Yes, you’re very smart for someone who throws themselves in front of moving bullets.” 

John’s silent for a moment and Rodney bites his lip. He didn’t mean for that to slip out. Shit. “I mean...uh...” 

“Rodney, I-I wasn’t going to risk her shooting you,” says John. 

“No, instead you got shot. In the chest. What would I have done if the bullet had pushed through your ribs and into your heart or lungs?” 

“Well...ditto, buddy.” 

“You’d have died and left me and Miska behind, widowed on this frozen waste of an island with nothing but the hares for company and deer innards for food. We’d have wasted away without you teaching us all of your survival techniques.” 

“I’m pretty sure I’ve shared everything I know about survival.” 

“Yes, well, there’s knowing and then there’s doing, and I can’t do this without you.” Rodney’s voice breaks and he heaves in a sob, feeling the tears fall and he pulls up a hand to wipe them away, but it’s far too late to hope John hasn’t noticed. John pulls him in tighter and squeezes. 

“Hey. Remember what I said? I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Yes, but you can’t be sure, and she almost killed you, and I-” 

“I’m still here, Rodney.” 

“For how long?” 

John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “You can’t ask me not to protect you with everything I’ve got. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.” 

“Okay, that’s great, but maybe apply some of that to your own wellbeing." 

“I’ll do my best to be here, okay?” 

That’s probably as close to a promise as he can expect from John. He’ll take it. 

*** 

Come morning it’s bitterly cold. They dress and pack up as fast as they can, tying their rucksacks back onto the sleds and forgoing breakfast in favour of speed. It’s all downhill from here, the last hurdle before the home stretch. The view is spectacular, they can see all the way from the Carter Hydro Dam in the East to the vast logging forest in the West, and Mystery Lake on the far side. They can see home, and even though it’s only been a few days Rodney feels something loosen in his chest at the thought of sleeping in his own bed tonight. Miska pants happily next to them, and it seems as though she knows they’re nearing home too. 

It’s so much easier to drag the sleds downhill, it’s almost fun, but when John suggests they ride them down Rodney rolls his eyes. 

“Knowing your luck, we’d ride them off a cliff.” 

“Is that a no?” 

“That’s a no.” 

Still, it’s far less effort to go down than it was to come up and they are able to keep a much faster pace, making it from the crevice at the top to the gate near the logging camp at the bottom in a few hours instead of the half a day it took in the other direction. In no time at all, they’re back on the rail track and heading home. Rodney gets a little giddy when he spots the derailed train in the distance, feels positively thrilled when they pass it completely and spot the sign for the camp office. 

“We’re here, we did it!” he exclaims. 

“Sure did,” says John, smiling. 

Miska runs off ahead and is waiting by the front door when they finally get there, sitting patiently as Rodney detaches himself from the sled and fumbles in his rucksack for the key. When he opens the door she rushes in and bounds up the stairs then back down again, her tail wagging back and forth. 

“Someone’s excited,” mumbles John as he dumps his rucksack on the counter. 

“It’s freezing in here,” moans Rodney, opening the stove to lay down some tinder and a couple of logs. 

John produces the lighter he took from Molly. “Here you go,” he says, striking the wheel to produce a warm yellow flame. Rodney takes it and sets it to the tinder, watching as it burns, then shuts the door of the stove and hands the lighter back. He sends John upstairs to light the other stove as he makes a start on the boxes, dumping them one by one on the floor in front of the counter. 

Miska claims her spot by the stove and watches them as they unpack. Rodney starts with the medications, stacking them in a cupboard by type and making a checklist of names and amounts for future reference. John whizzes past with the ‘borrowed’ ammunition and stores it with the guns in an alcove by the front door. The cleaning products get their own cupboard, and the soap gets stored in a box in the bathroom. Rodney fills a drawer in the filing cabinet with candles from the church, slotting them in next to the last of the flares. Making candles from deer fat is high up on his to-do list this summer, but it’s good to have a reserve if it all goes wrong. It was difficult to get anything done by the light of the stoves in the winter past and he hopes to have a good supply by the time the next one comes around. (They’ve long since run out of fuel for the storm lanterns and agreed to keep the flares for emergencies.) Life without electricity is hard, but they have shelter and warmth, food and water, Miska and each other, so they don’t complain. 

John takes his books and all thirteen boxes of lube upstairs for future use. Rodney gets a little thrill when he thinks of surrendering himself up to John like that. It’s not something he had ever thought to want, but with John he finds himself craving new and unexpected things. He hums to himself as he collapses the boxes and stows them between the shelves in the pantry. They’re home and safe, and despite what happened the trip was well worth it. He shucks his jacket then his sweater as the place warms up, almost tripping over Miska in the middle of the floor but too content to tell her off. Tomorrow, when the water he heated up, they’ll have a hot shower, break in a wash cloth and a bar of floral soap, then maybe try something new. But for now, there's coffee to be had. 


End file.
